


flint to fire

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dubious Consent, F/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Pre-Conquest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28776966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lord Aegon is tasked with teaching his rebellious little sister an important lesson. Rhaenys proves a rapt student.
Relationships: Aegon I Targaryen/Rhaenys Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I), Aegon I Targaryen/Visenya Targaryen, Rhaenys Targaryen & Visenya Targaryen (Sisters of Aegon I)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Anonymous





	flint to fire

**Author's Note:**

> no non-con but rhaenys is 15 and aegon is 20 so [dead dove do not eat]

“Lord Aegon,” a servant bows, as he makes his way to where his wife is to discuss the latest news Orys brought them of upheaval in the Riverlands. There is a large castle being built there and the smallfolk are being taxed too heavily to pay for it, Aegon’s highest general reports. Perhaps they will pay it a visit soon, Aegon thinks to suggest to Visenya, that they might better understand the political landscape. There is also the matter of keeping their foreboding presence known.

Aegon nods, and the servant scurries away. He often has that effect, he finds.

The Painted Table is coming along well, and Visenya sits scuttling figures for it - wolves and lions and stags and the like. His sister-wife is not quite an artist, but she enjoys working with her hands. They are akin in this way, and in most other ways as well. That’s what makes their marriage work.

“—she does not listen to me, but perhaps coming from you,” their mother, Lady Valaena is beseeching Visenya when he enters, and her back to him ensures his arrival goes unnoticed.

Visenya did not let her finish. “Why should I concern myself, mother? Rhaenys is not a child any longer. If you are so worried find her a husband, then there will be no issue to speak of.”

“She dismisses the suitors as if it is all a great lark,” Valaena despairs, “if one more perfectly appropriate boy leaves Dragonstone with his heart in tatters, I fear we will be unable to find a match of sufficient Valyrian blood. Already there are so few options.”

“There’s always Orys,” Visenya snorts, and Aegon can see the hurt that flashes across their mother’s frame even from where he stands, just as he can see that his sister does not notice it at all. His Visenya often lacked tact, and Lady Valaena was remarkably sensitive. Aegon decides to step in.

“Visenya, Mother,” he greets, and they both rise to bow their heads to him. He kisses his mother on the cheek, and his wife on the mouth. “What were you two discussing?”

“Rhaenys,” Visenya rolls her eyes, focusing once more on her whittling, “and her fondness for boys.” Aegon only tilts his head, and looks to his mother. 

She wrings her hands. Ever since the passing of their father, their mother has obsessed herself with Rhaenys, concern which Rhaenys has merely shrugged off and continued to do as she pleases. Aegon often sees Meraxes in the sky above them during all hours of the day, and when guests come to stay, his little sister dances or sings or entertains them in a dozen different manners, each one more charming than the last. There are often pretty young lordlings or ladies surrounding her, seeking her favor, but Aegon only ever notices Rhaenys in those crowds.

Currently their mother’s nephew, eight-and-ten year old Aethan Velaryon, is serving as Rhaenys’ lovestruck shadow. She was watching him in the training yard earlier while the boy plucked and preened for her in his shining armor. When it came their turn to spar, Aegon made quick work of disarming him with Blackfyre, and left the yard soon after. Surely Rhaenys would not wish to marry such a boy, Aegon had thought. Surely even she realized that she needed someone...stronger.

“I fear she cannot be reasoned with, my son, for the septa you brought for her often complains that Rhaenys skips her lessons, or brings her own books that are unsuitable for a girl her age. I was asking Visenya if she might speak to the girl, to shake some sense into her.”

“Has she given away that which by rights belongs to her husband?” he asks simply, and his mother looks taken aback.

“She is but five and ten,” she reminds him, as if that means anything. He was four and ten when Visenya deflowered him on a patch of moss beneath the pine trees in the remote garden he often spends time in. _You will be mine anyways,_ she said, _and I tire of waiting._ It was a violent coupling, as their lovemaking remains even today, six years later.

“Indeed,” he replies, and runs his fingers along the carved Red Mountains of Dorne on the table. “Then there is no issue. Rhaenys knows her place.”

Lady Valaena bows her head. “As you wish, my Lord.” He is pleased by her deference, a difficult thing for mothers to adopt when their sons become their Lords. He kisses her hands and she departs hurriedly.

“She sees father’s philandering shadow in our younger sister,” Visenya says absentmindedly, placing a miniature falcon on the Vale, “such is her old age, I suppose.”

“It was unkind of you to bring up Orys,” he notes gruffly. Not admonishing her. Never that.

Visenya lets out a wicked laugh. “Perhaps, but it is an option. He watches her at times. Who can blame him? Beautiful girl.”

“She is a wise woman, and a good mother to us.”

“Indeed. But she is not the blood of the dragon,” she ends their conversation there, taking Orys' letter from his proffered hands and reading it over.  
.  
.  
.

At dinner that evening, Rhaenys and Aethan are positively conspiratorial, heads bowed together as they discuss some matter or other. Aegon and his Uncle Daemon discuss their business in the Free Cities, and Lady Valaena is too happy having her favorite brother with her to keep watch over Rhaenys.

Aegon does, though. While his uncle regales the table with stories of the war in Tyrosh that Aegon fought alongside him in, the Lord of Dragonstone leans back in his chair and quietly keeps an eye on his precocious little sister. The two children have stopped speaking, eyes rapt on the avid storyteller, but their hands seemed to be joined beneath the table. Rhaenys is breathing strangely, and the rhythm of their arms moving is perfectly matched. When a heavy sigh falls from the girls lips, and cousin Aethan dons an immensely self-satisfied grin, Aegon throws back his wine.

Perhaps their mother was correct. Someone should speak to her.

In Visenya’s chambers that night, Aegon lounges naked with a cup of wine lazily balanced in his hand. He weighs telling her of what he witnessed earlier, but when Visenya emerges from her bath, shimmering in oils with a dark promise in her eyes, he pushes it aside, and sinks into the torturous delights of his marriage bed.  
.  
.  
.

He rises and dresses early, as is his practice, but instead of making his way to the training yard he saddles his horse and rides for the dragon roosts. 

Just as he suspected, Rhaenys is already there, coaxing Meraxes to her breakfast. Beside Rhaenys, Aethan attempts to stop quivering in his boots. His cousin is truly a worm. By his age, Aegon had already earned Blackfyre, been wedded and bedded, fought in battles, and assumed half the responsibilities of his lordship as his father grew ill. Nonetheless, Aegon wonders why no request has been made to him for Rhaenys’ hand yet from his uncle.

“Lord Aegon,” Aethan bows when he arrives. 

“Big brother!” Rhaenys exclaims excitedly. This is the Rhaenys Aegon remembers from when she was still a child, instead of the half-woman she is now. Always wanting to go flying with one of her siblings, happiness in her features when she gets her way—no wonder why she was their father’s favorite. “Won’t you come riding with me?” she pleads.

“Indeed, I was meaning to take Balerion for a ride. I will have him saddled.” Rhaenys squeals in glee, and shoos cousin Aethan away to the boy’s great discontent. They soar up into the air by midmorning, and Balerion blows a line of fire towards the heavens that seems to touch the clouds. Meraxes flies in large loops, elegant and energetic, and they don’t even consider coming down until the sun is at its zenith in the sky.  
.  
.  
.

Once the weather seems favorable, Uncle Daemon resolves to leave for Driftmark, and cousin Aethan pouts as if he is some lovelorn little girl. This Visenya does notice and she whispers into his ear while smirking.

“Poor Mother, another of her schemes to marry Rhaenys off has failed.”

“Indeed. Young Aethan never approached me with any request.” 

Visenya gives him a bemused look and runs a sharp nail up the sewed line of his breeches. His thigh muscles tighten reflexively—she does love to scratch.

“I believe,” she draws out, “that you will find Rhaenys herself denied the request.”

At this, Aegon turns. It is not the place of Rhaenys to accept or deny a marriage proposal on her own behalf. He would have denied it just the same, but that was his right as the Lord of Dragonstone. “Do explain, sister.”

Vis only shrugs. “She was merely amused by him. He asked, and she told him to perhaps come again in a few years, after he was blooded in battle. She sought me out for gossip afterwards, and we two had a good laugh.”

“Gossip? You and Rhaenys?”

“Do not look so surprised, brother. Who else does she have to speak of such things with?” 

He grunts and turns his eyes back to the singing troupe. It appears there is no permanent damage done, for Rhaenys and Aethan dance together, the boy’s hand gripping her waist tightly as he speaks to her fiercely, eyes ablaze. Rhaenys throws her head back and her sparkling laugh catches the attention of the entire room.

Visenya is too proud a woman to ever beg for sex, so on nights such as this when he does not follow her into her rooms, she says nothing and accepts his farewell kiss as her due.

Aegon is hers and always has been. He came into this world when she was two years of age, and by the time Rhaenys burst into life five years later, they already understood they would be wed one day. She’s the only woman he has ever had, and he is the only man for her. 

Some men, such as their father, chafed against bonds of fidelity. Nonetheless Lord Aerion gave his lady wife all the respect owed her, bestowing upon her gifts and allowing her to run the household per her preferences. Never once was a hand raised against their mother and not once will Aegon do so either.

He had learned by example. He had learned through a hundred thrashings in the training yard, through dinners with a dozen ambassadors and princes and lordlings, through hours spent in the air on Balerion’s back. Visenya had learned the same as him, trained for the same reasons Aegon was; to rule Dragonstone.

In comparison, who had Rhaenys to learn from? She was no warrior, and her formative years Lady Valaena had spent at the side of their father’s sickbed. The septa was clearly of no use, a joyless old woman Rhaenys scorned.

_What can a meek mouse teach a dragon? Nothing._

Perhaps Rhaenys had lacked a proper education. But she was nearly six and ten now, and it was time she learned. 

She could not make decisions such as who she would and would not marry without his leave. That would not do.

It was with that in mind that Aegon opened the doors of her chambers that night, the antechamber still lit with candles and the crackling of the hearth clear from the adjacent bedchamber. It is a healthy blaze, it seems, but it is not the only noise leaking from the room.

“Oh gods, _Rhaenys_ ,” Aethan is groaning. At least in this he sounds like a man, Aegon thinks humorlessly. Looking through the door, however, he sees the two are clothed, and merely petting one another. Aethan is the picture of ecstasy, breath hurried as he rubs his body against her thigh. His hands clutch at her back but when he tries to kiss her, Aegon’s little sister moves her face away, resulting in truly pathetic, reedy whines.

The shift has made her face visible to him. She appears bored.

Aethan moves with more urgency, holding Rhaenys to him, and spends himself in his breeches like only a green boy can. Perhaps he is even a man-maid, Aegon would not be surprised. When he flops against the pillows Rhaenys sits up and blows her mussed hair away from her face. 

“Rhaenys,” the boy pants, lovestruck. Aegon moves to pour himself wine. He does not need to see when he can hear perfectly.

“Aethan,” Rhaenys parrots.

“You are so beautiful, cousin. I beg you to reconsider my offer of marriage. I beg you! I would devote my life to your pleasure, cousin. I am a slave to you.”

“We have already _spoken_ about this,” Rhaenys whines petulantly. 

“I am madly in love with you, Rhaenys! How can you ask me to accept a rejection when my heart burns for you? When you will not even promise me that you will forsake any other suitor until I return? I cannot leave without your promise of love, Rhaenys, I cannot!”

“Well I don’t see how that’s your choice, nuncle Daemon decides when you leave, does he not?”

“But what of your promise? Will you be true to me until I return? I swear Rhaenys, I will touch no other women, I will not even look at them.”

“Perhaps you might, the practice would not hurt,” Rhaenys giggles.

 _Cruel,_ Aegon thinks, approving. He takes a sip from his goblet and frowns. It is merely juice; of course his sister does not have wine in her chambers.

“Cousin Rhaenys, I plead you! If you only return my words of love, my feelings, I will do all the rest. I will make Driftmark a castle worthy of your beauty, I will fill it with all that you love so that you never want for a thing. I will even speak to Aegon—”

 _Aegon._ He abandons the juice, for he has heard enough now.

“That is Lord Aegon to you,” he corrects, entering the bedchambers. 

Aethan goes white as his hair. The surprise on Rhaenys’ face makes her look even younger, Aegon muses. Sweeter. She scrambles from the sheets and attempts to smooth down her hair.

“Brother,” she begins, but he puts up a hand to stop her, locking eyes with the intruder in her chambers instead.

“Cousin. An unfortunate surprise to find you here. If you have dishonored my sister, I will feed my dragon your manhood.”

Aethan gulps and looks as if he might weep. He bows respectfully.

“Lord Aegon, a thousand apologies. I would never disrespect Lady Rhaenys. I love her deeply, I wish to marry her.” The _boy_ looks nervously at Rhaenys, as if it is her approval that matters. “I have fallen for her in my time here. I can assure you that I would be a devoted husband to her, caring for her at all times.”

“Indeed,” Aegon murmurs, thoughtfully stroking his closely-cropped facial hair. “This is the first you have said of this, is it not?”

Aethan seems startled. “Well—yes, I suppose it is.”

“Come now, cousin, the truth.”

“I asked Lady Rhaenys,” Aethan admits, “she wished me to wait for a time.”

“That’s not what I said,” Rhaenys interrupts, to which Aegon raises an eyebrow. She gulps. “I only mean, brother, that I did not tell cousin Aethan to propose or not.”

“Tell me, young Aethan, who is the Lord of Dragonstone? The liege of House Targaryen?”

“You. You are, my Lord.”

“Not Lady Rhaenys?”

The boy’s face clouds over as if something is dawning on him now. “No, my Lord.”

“So why,” Aegon punctuates each word with a threatening step towards his cousin, until he is towering over him, “in the name of Valyria, would you think to ask _Rhaenys_ for her own hand? Is it for her to give you, or is it mine?”

“Yours, my Lord,” Aethan replies with despair in his eyes.

“Do you think to undermine me in my own home, cousin Aethan?”

“No Lord Aegon, of course not, I merely wished to—”

Aegon speaks with steel in his voice. “I do not care what you wished, boy. Let this be a lesson to you. You will leave Dragonstone on the morrow, and you will never marry my sister. Even this I only grant for the love my mother bears your father. Should I find you sniffing around Lady Rhaenys’ skirts once more, my earlier threat will be made true. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Aethan manages to reply. There is actual heartbreak in his eyes, as he turns them on Rhaenys and beseeches her support. She remains silent. Good girl.

“Yes?” Aegon repeats sharply.

“Yes, Lord Aegon.”

Good. That is the easy part of this issue dealt with. “Get out,” Aegon commands, and Aethan scurries away, spineless and defeated.

Now there is only him and Rhaenys.

“Sister,” he states simply, turning and cocking his head. In her delicate nightgown of some lace or other, the form of her is nearly visible. Her hands are locked together like the Maiden the Westerosi worship, purple eyes penitent.

“Our mother worries for you.” At this, Rhaenys pouts and her nose scrunches. No longer the maiden, simply a spoiled young girl.

“Does she? She is very good at finding reasons to worry.” Aegon does not laugh, as he normally does at her amusing little jokes.

“Quite,” he purrs. “And yet, here I find she is not wrong. Or was there not a man in your chambers just now, having his pleasure with you?”

“He was not having any pleasure _with me_ , he was merely having it _on his own_ while I had no say in the matter. And cousin Aethan is hardly a man,” she scoffs.

“Oh?” he asks, circling her slowly.

“Indeed,” she seizes the opportunity to go on, thinking herself to avoid trouble. “You are a man, brother. Cousin Aethan is more of a boy who I had amusements with. But I would never give away my virtue of course. My septa has taught me the importance of such a thing.”

Aegon stands behind her, watching the rigidness in her bare shoulders. “And what, sweet sister, is the difference between a boy and a man?”

She cannot resist being clever. “I could not say, but I know one from the other when they stand before me.”

“No,” he growls, “the difference is that a man will not _play your games,_ Rhaenys.” At that, he places his hands on her shoulders, gently circling her thin neck for a moment before sliding them to grip the straps of her nightgown. Her breath hitches.

“Aegon—”

“I am not simply Aegon now, sister. Right now I am your Lord, and I see I have been remiss in teaching you a valuable lesson.” He slides her nightgown down to her hips, leaving her chest and stomach uncovered. “But no matter. You will learn it now.” He pushes it the rest of the way off, leaving her naked. “Lie on your bed.”

There is no room for any protest, even proud Rhaenys understands that. She slides gracefully onto her bed and turns to lie on her back, an arm across her breasts and another covering her cunt. There is a shyness to her he has not seen in ages, and he wonders for a moment if any boy has ever seen her like this. Perhaps not.

He sits on the edge of the bed and encloses an ankle in his grip, marveling at how his fingers touch for how small her ankle is. He squeezes lightly.

“Tell me, sister, do you often bring boys into these chambers?”

“No,” she answers. He runs his fingers up to her calf. Her skin is softer than any he’s ever touched.

“Was cousin Aethan the first?”

“Yes.” He squeezes her softly so that she knows he knows she is lying. “No. There was one other, but I was much younger and we only kissed chastely.”

“And outside of these chambers?”

“Sometimes I hold hands with boys.” He squeezes harder this time, again only for a moment. “And sometimes I kiss them. But I had never let any get so close as to have...pleasure, before cousin Aethan.”

“And why do these _boys_ not ask me for your hand?”

Rhaenys bites her lip. “They wish to, but I insist that they do not.” Aegon hums and rests a hand on her knee.

“Why do you insist so, sister? Are they not to your liking?” 

“I…,” she hesitates, “as husbands, no.” A sharp intake of breath spills from her when he lays his hand on the flat of her stomach. He urges her on with pressure from his palm. “They are not. They will not do, as a husband. My Lord.” The title pleases him.

“And do you think I would not see their unworthiness? That I would give you to a man beneath you?” She looks as if she has never considered this. He pushes on, “do you think me an unfit Lord, _haedar_?”

“No!” she exclaims, eyes alight. “No, my Lord, you are just. You are wise, worthy of your honors and more. Everyone says so, even the servants.”

“Good.” He leans over her until his face is looming over hers. “Then you understand that, as your Lord, I have certain rights. Rights that you should not presume to stand in the way of.”

“Yes, my Lord. I have learned my lesson, I apologize for my overstep,” she assures him sweetly, clutching herself as if in repentance.

He gives her a small smile, one she returns with a shy one of her own. She even relaxes her body a feather, and he moves his face back to allow her room.

“No,” he says, just when she starts to get up.

“We are not finished yet.” A spark of something crosses her eyes now. There has never been a situation she could not wriggle her way out of before, he knows that much. That is the source of their mother’s grief, and it must be addressed.

He places a large hand on her thin, graceful arm that covers her chest. “My Lord,” she begins, but loses her words quickly when he gently forces her arm to her side, balancing her wrist between his grip and the sheets below with enough pressure that she can feel, but not enough to cause any pain. He knows the balance well—Visenya taught it to him.

Uncovered, her breasts lay flushed on her chest, perfectly tempting. They are more generous than Aegon’s wife’s, and the rosebuds of her nipples are hardened and pointed.

“If I were a mere boy,” he says conversationally, “would you _insist_ I stop?” A shiver passes through Rhaenys, wracking her without her permission.

“I...I would not presume to command you, my Lord,” she answers, face hopeful that this is the correct response. He leans down and licks one of her nipples, making her gasp.

“How many boys have you allowed this, sister?” he asks as he goes to the other.

“None! None at all. I have not done this, I swear it.”

“Interesting,” he trails his nose down her stomach, stopping to kiss the creamy cave. Rhaenys squeaks. 

He moves his face to her side, breathing hot air over the gentle curves of her wide hips. “The other day, at dinner. I saw you and cousin Aethan, playing one of your games, beneath the table.”

“Yes...I apologize, my Lord. It was improper.”

He hums, stopping to smell the scent of her neck. The perfume of the day has nearly faded, but notes of heady fruits are still faintly detectable.

“Did cousin Aethan wish for more than finding pleasure inside his breeches, Rhaenys?”

“Yes,” she merely pips. She is distracted, for how his face is level with the hand between her legs. Her thighs are pressed tight together as well, but that she is wet is plain to anyone with a working nose. He moves her hand, which to her credit, does not tremble.

“And did you give it to him?” he demands, sternly. 

“No,” she swears, as his hands rest on each of her thighs. His grip wraps nearly around them, but he leaves them to sit for a moment.

“No?”

“Never,” she promises. “I have given no man my maidenhead. Besides…” she trails off.

“Besides?” he squeezes.

She blushes prettily. The light of the fire suits her, as it should. Fire and Blood were their House words after all.

“He was overeager,” she no more than whispers. _Ah,_ Aegon thinks, _so she did see his insuitability._

“Quite,” he agrees, then grasps her thighs more firmly and pulls them apart. 

“Brother,” Rhaenys blurts, before remembering herself, “I mean, my Lord. I, I have kept my maidenhead. I cannot...I only mean to say…”

“I know what you mean to say. I will leave you your maidenhead. I will only show you what a man can do, that a boy cannot.” He tarries for a moment, meeting her eyes that are so like his. When she exhales relief, he descends, and after a brief indulgence of gazing upon the thin downy hair lying over the crux of her, he traces a gentle tongue up her opening to the pleasure pearl hidden at the very top.

To say Rhaenys reacts is an understatement. Her hips arch off the bed and she yelps so loudly that she slaps her hands over her own mouth. He holds her tightly and laps at her slowly, intentionally a few more times, allowing her to get used to the sensation.

Now he is certain she was not lying. This is something she has not done before.

He locks eyes with her, letting her see exactly what he is doing, which she watches with wide eyes. What was fear on her face is erased, replaced with the wonder of a maid who has not been _licked_ in this way. He doubts there is a woman alive who would not find her first time receiving such treatment an awe-inspiring event, even Visenya had not been able to contain her pleasure and she despised to lose control.

Then he sheds his false kindness, bringing her roughly to him and setting about _devouring_ her. He is relentless, keeping a finger inside of her while using his entire mouth to suck at her pearl and make her thrash around.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” she whimpers in shock, and Aegon’s eyebrow surely rises to his hairline. Never has he heard such a filthy, common word from her mouth... it makes him aware of just how hard he is. 

This is not about him, though. When Rhaenys shakes as if she is a leaf in the wind, he keeps his eyes on hers, and when her hands lightly touch his head, he grunts his approval. Her fingers find their way into his scalp, although they do not yank and control him the way Visenya does. They only seem to stroke softly and tentatively.

It is a lovely thing. _She_ is a lovely thing. The loveliest thing he has ever seen, when he replaces his mouth with his fingers and rises up to press a kiss to her lax mouth as she peaks.

When she has recovered, she seems upset. Perhaps he pushed her too far, he thinks for a moment, but she only places a hand on his chest and fitfully demands, “please kiss me again, I was not ready.” He looks at her meaningfully. “My lord, I mean.”

So he kisses her. This she clearly knows her way around for she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him tenderly if fervently. When she rubs her body against his clothed one, he trails a hand down her back and squeezes her backside, which brings a squawk from her.

He breaks the kiss, and sits up once more, schooling his expression into something carefully blank. That kiss…

“Did you learn something tonight, sister,” he asks, voice sounding rough as it always does when he is aroused.

“Yes,” she replies, but her eyes are foggy as if she is still swimming in her climax. “I learned that you are my Lord, and you are wise.” He cocks his head to the side. “And that you do not approve of my amusements, and that I should cease them. Else you will teach me lessons.”

He huffs a small laugh. She sits up, shy maiden once more with the sheets pulled up to cover her beautiful frame. 

“Will you—will you teach me more lessons such as this? My Lord?”

He touches her rosy cheek. Her eyes dance with anticipation.

“Sleep now, sister. And do not forget what you have learned.” He kisses her forehead as a brother kisses a sister, and leaves her chambers. 

He seeks out Visenya after all, and after they’ve both bled and climaxed, he tells her that the matter of Rhaenys is resolved. When she asks sarcastically if Rhaenys will marry Aethan, Aegon bends her over his knee, as he often does in their union of love and war.  
.  
.  
.  
Only when she is sure he is long gone does Rhaenys let out a shriek into her pillow, kicking her legs in disbelief and victory.

Gods, it had been so much _easier_ than she ever thought it could be! Seducing Aegon seemed like it might take moons, certainly she had not thought it to be done before her nameday, but it had been so!

Visenya had warned that it would be slow work, and between them, her elder sister was the one who knew best. When Rhaenys had gone to her to laugh over another boy deliriously in love with her, and probed her with a hundred questions on the matter of marriage, Visenya confessed that even she and Aegon did not satisfy all of each other’s needs. Aegon craved sweetness she never gave, and Visenya found his libido to be one of legends, impossible for her to truly fulfill. 

A week later, Rhaenys came to her with a solution, and their plotting commenced.

Rhaenys was a dragonrider—no husband could be anything other than a vassal to her whims, and the thought of how _weak_ her husband would be caused only disdain. There was truly no one else, and Vis agreed. She could not broach the idea herself, for Aegon would not take well to being told what to do. And Rhaenys had no idea if he saw her as anything other than his younger sister.

But never in her wildest dreams could she imagine that cousin Aethan would bring her brother right to her bed! To have her lordly brother kneeling before her in such a base, primal manner was unbelievable, and she thanks the stars that she saved this act for him alone. If she can conquer Aegon, surely Westeros will be child’s play.

She calms herself, blowing out the remaining candles and replacing her nightgown. Aegon is not conquered just yet. She should not count her blessings before they have been bestowed, that stupid old wrinkly septa had taught her that much at least, and so she will consult Visenya on the morrow.

 _Rhaenys Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._ She spins around her room in glee, grinning wide.


End file.
